by Richard Boch
Between all the excitement and the Alphabet City nod, I never saw this one coming, and hanging out with the Pretenders has its limits, even for me. Andi and I offer our thanks, tell Pete and Lynette, “Later,” and head for White Street. By the time we arrive, Saturday night’s moved into Sunday morning.
Andi and I freshen up, order a drink and walk downstairs. There’s a new Space Invaders in the Mudd basement waiting for us. An hour and several drinks later, I hear Lynette scream, “Oh my God! We knew we’d find you here.” She’s laughing her way down the stairs and Pete’s right behind her with two beers and a pocketful of quarters. By 5 A.M. we were heading in three different directions.
Hammerhead’s and a Full Baggie
September 1, Monday, forty-eight hours after Central Park, we’re on the Long Island Expressway driving thru the first seventeen years of my life. We pass Exit 34, New Hyde Park Road—just a mile from where I first listened to John Lennon, Keith Richards and Grace Slick. It’s where I saw Dangerfield and Cher on Ed Sullivan. I was maybe twelve years old and that wave of information, the songs and the words, set my life in motion. Then became a connection to now, impossible without those voices.
Lynette’s got a friend with an old beat-up station wagon, and he’s doing the driving. I’m smoking a joint and staring out the window at the disconnected world of my spent and misspent youth. Nothing and everything seems the same.
The Pretenders are playing a Labor Day show at a club called Hammerhead’s, somewhere along the south shore’s mid-island sprawl. I spoke to Pete earlier and he knows he’s on Long Island but he’s not sure where. I tell him we’re coming, we’ll find him, and we’ll see him later.
A barely legal left turn and we cross six lanes of Sunrise Highway traffic. Hammerhead’s is located in a strip mall; the club, about the size of a small, low-ceilinged supermarket and a big change from Central Park. The band is already playing “Kid,” again their second song, as Lynette and I squeeze our way onto the side of the stage. Pete looks over, shakes his head and laughs. His bass lets out a rumble and the band takes it for a ride. It’s such a beautiful song.
After the show, John McEnroe, Vitas Gerulaitis and a baggie full of cocaine come backstage. Pete tosses me a beer that I actually catch, and tells me to wait. John and Vitas play it cool and the band gets busy signing albums, autographing T-shirts and posing for a photo with Mr. Hammerhead’s kid. Thirty minutes later, it’s time to split, and Pete rides with us in the station wagon. There’s no traffic and we’re flying along the expressway, windows open, headed for the city. A quick stop at the hotel and by 2 A.M. we’re back at the Mudd Club, exhausted, stoned and drinking beer. Gennaro’s working the door, and I have no idea what day it is.
Happy Birthday to Me
Tuesday’s reality sets in and I’m back outside of 77 White with the chain in my hand; I feel good about everything but my love life, my heroin chippy and my wardrobe. At least I’ve been inspired to start some new paintings.
By Wednesday I’m ignoring the crowd, letting Aldo do the work. I’m dreaming about The Surf and Sand when Betsy Sussler (still a year away from Bomb magazine) arrives and mentions she’ll be in Montauk for the weekend to work on a movie. I tell her I’ll be there too, celebrating my twenty-seventh birthday.
Thursday night at the door, waiting for the night to end. My birthday is two days away and I’m trying to figure out what’s happening and who’s coming out. Steve Mass keeps asking me questions about Montauk, and I have a feeling he’s going to be there.
I get on the train Friday morning with a pocket full of money, a pack of cigarettes and a weekend’s worth of dime bags. I sit down, close my eyes and wonder if I’m young or old. I curl up in the seat, change trains in a town called Babylon and wake up in Montauk.
That evening, Lori and Joe stop by again with Thomas Trask. Their house is just fifteen minutes west of Montauk and they drove over in their Renault Le Car, a cute little cube of an automobile. Sitting around the bar with Gary, Ricky and Teri, we drink and play Loteria, go out on the porch and smoke pot. The air feels cool and we can hear the waves. Bea’s behind the bar mixing drinks, chatting up the locals. Saving ourselves for Saturday night, none of us go off the rails or over the edge. I tell Lori, Joe and Thomas, “Come back tomorrow, for my birthday, and we’ll have some cake.”
Back inside I look over at Bea. She loves what’s happening at The Surf and Sand and so do the rest of us. I ask her for another drink, go upstairs and smoke another joint. Looking out the window and staring at the ocean, it’s only 1 A.M. but I’m ready for a good night’s sleep.
Saturday morning rolls in slow and Steve Mass rings the pay phone downstairs at 10 A.M. It’s hard to tell if he’s up late or early. He tells me he’s chartering one of those seaplanes that take off from the East River near Twenty-third Street and flying out in the afternoon with John Cale and his wife, Risé. He wants to see what we’re up to and wants to be on hand for my birthday. They need two rooms for the night and Bea has to see what she can do.
Schedule, 1980.
Big Ron shows up at 11 A.M. and it’s already eighty degrees. The visitors’ plane is set to land late afternoon, arriving at Bea’s in plenty of time for the party. Ron, Ricky and Gary carry a cake back from town, and Lori, Joe and Thomas show up to help blow out the candles. Betsy Sussler and her “crew” come by after a day of moviemaking. Even the psycho coke dealer from Charlton Street makes the quick trip from East Hampton. Bea stays behind the bar, doing her Surf and Sand hospitality thing, while I run upstairs to roll more joints. When I come downstairs everyone’s singing “Happy Birthday” to me.
I had hoped for a Fudgie the Whale ice cream cake from Carvel, but the IGA supermarket special does the trick. I’m smiling and happy, surrounded by friends, people I barely know and people I don’t know at all; it’s Mudd Club on the beach.
I remember swimming in the ocean that night. I don’t remember sleeping but I probably did. I walked the sand in the morning, filmed a brief scene and spoke a few lines in Betsy’s movie. On the way back I jumped in the waves. Sunday afternoon, everybody went to Gosman’s Dock, the big seafood joint in Montauk, and Steve picked up the tab. The visitors flew back to the city; the rest of us got high and headed back to the beach. The water felt September warm and I swam past the breakers. I closed my eyes, treaded water, and the day disappeared. By 9 P.M., I was on the train. I was officially twenty-seven years old.
Taxis, Drinks and Drugs
Back on Murray Street just after midnight and Steve calls the minute I walk in. He tells me to come by the club, says he’ll be up on the third floor. I have no idea what he wants.
I get out of my shorts, into my jeans, shake Montauk out of my sneakers and walk to White Street. There’s a few people waiting outside and Gennaro’s working the door, flirting with anyone who’ll flirt back. Someone calls, “Richie, Richie,” but it’s not my name unless you’re Tom Baker or Sylvia Miles. I keep walking.
When I get to the third floor Steve asks me what I’m doing. I assume he means tonight and not with my life, so I mention stopping at One U, seeing the Lounge Lizards at Danceteria and coming back here later. He responds with two hundred dollars in twenties, tells me to go to Danceteria, buy people drinks and to bring them back to White Street. I know what he’s up to, and it sounds like a plan, but three hundred sounds better. Steve bites and I’m on my way with a wad of cash to spend on taxis, drinks and drugs.
Danceteria’s crowded and the Lounge Lizards are already onstage. Jim Fouratt walks over and hands me a bottle of champagne for my birthday. I pour half of it down my throat, walk up front and pass the bottle to John Lurie. He takes a long drink, passes it back and I finish the rest. I buy a bunch of drink tickets and wander thru the club looking for coke, Quaaludes and someone to fuck around with. I’m here on assignment, doing my job and buying people drinks makes me popular.
By 2 A.M., I leave Danceteria bored, distracted and fucked up. I feel like disappearing but I can’t.
Six of us in a Checker headed for White Street, and the driver looks about a hundred years old. We’re doing 60 mph down Broadway and I’m listening to mouth noise coming out of five people I barely know. I’d rather be home painting or passing out but ten minutes later I’m back on White Street.
Again I’m left wondering, Is this really my job? I keep thinking about what Steve asked me: What are you doing? Leaning on the bar, the Mudd Club going full tilt, I’m trying to figure out a real answer. How to paint more, work less, stop using dope and still go out every night? I still don’t know. I’m still missing something. I still can’t see it. Maybe he needs to rephrase the question.
Monday morning, walking home alone. I’m thinking about the phone call nineteen months ago: Steve Mass telling me to come see him.
Remembering those first few weeks, I thought I found myself when I landed on the steps of the Mudd Club. I met a lot of people and made my share of friends but all I really found was another place to hide out, get high and go crazy.
Now it’s September 1980. The weekends in Montauk are almost over, the weather’s changing and the nights are cool. My hair’s the longest it’s ever been and I’m working the door in jeans, a T-shirt and the green windbreaker. The long tweed coat’s still buried in the back of the closet.
Monday night, 9 P.M., and the only other question is dinner. I’m hungry and I have to be at Mudd by 11.
Meltdown
The following week Lynette arrives in Montauk around 3 A.M. It’s one of my last visits to Bea’s Surf and Sand. We climb out the window, onto the roof, smoke some hash, and wait for the sun. I start thinking back to the summer of ’75. Nights on Lido Beach smoking pot, drinking quarts of Colt 45 and running toward the ocean. Summer 1976 was Bleecker and Bowery, Television and “Venus de Milo,” Talking Heads and “Psycho Killer.”
John Lurie, saxophone and shadow, 1980, by Lisa Genet.
Now it’s heroin on the beach and getting high in a second-floor bathroom on White Street. The summer is fading and two weeks after my birthday, Montauk’s almost over.
On the last day of the last weekend all I want to do is swim in the ocean one more time. The water’s calm, the waves barely slapping the sand. I keep walking till I’m neck deep, lift my feet, lie back and float. An hour later, I’m wrapped in a towel, walking back to The Surf and Sand. I get upstairs and completely melt down. I’m lying on the old blue carpeting on the floor of my room, crying. Bea’s talking to me, doing her best to help, but time’s running out. The train leaves for the city in an hour. She gives my hand a squeeze and goes downstairs.
I light a cigarette and try to stop shaking. I pull out a bag of Red Star dope but there’s nothing left. I get on the train with the other kids, hide behind a pair of dark glasses, and smoke my way home in the smoking car.
Ricky tells me, “Just relax.”
Teri, always the tender soul, seconds the advice with “Go to sleep, Grandma.”
“Okay.” I light another cigarette.
White Street, 2 A.M. There’s a guest DJ upstairs and Marianne Faithfull’s spitting out the words to “Why’d Ya Do It.” Arto Lindsay’s band DNA starts screaming from the stage downstairs. I’m drinking a beer, not sure if I should dance or bang my head against the wall. I’m at a loss, and getting high is starting to feel the same as low. I’m afraid I’m becoming one of those other people—giving a shit and not at the same time.
Tomorrow I’m back working the door. Maybe by then I’ll feel better.
One Last Time
Later that week, Bea made a trip to the city. Nearly forty years older than the rest of us she spent most of her life in Montauk, but at heart Bea Reilly was a woman of the world. For two short summers, she was our family and our friend.
Bea stayed at Big Ron’s Sullivan Street apartment, and we all went to dinner at One University Place. Ricky and Teri, Gary and Ron—no one wanted to say good-bye. We sat around till after midnight; 1 A.M., we headed for 77 White.
Standing at the bar on the first floor of the Mudd Club, Bea looked around, looked back at us, and she got it. We felt the same way walking into The Surf and Sand. It’s a feeling that’s hard to forget: of being home, but knowing you’ll have to leave before it leaves you.
Thirty minutes later, we squeezed ourselves into a booth upstairs. Steve came around and handed out drink tickets, wondering why he paid for his own drinks when he stayed at Bea’s. I just said thanks and Ricky was already at the bar. Teri asked him for more tickets. Bea looked happy and kept smiling.
We were all together one last time, closing down the summer of 1980.
11. BEAUTIFUL AND GONE
Mudd Club, 77 White Street. Outside wanting in, 1979, by Bob Gruen.
“Out of my mind, I just can’t take it anymore,” Buffalo Springfield, 1966, Neil Young singing, sad and beautiful. That was over fourteen years ago, half a lifetime. Standing at the Mudd Club door, the song keeps playing in my head. Inside, DJ David Azarch throws a bittersweet curveball onto the dance floor. “Redondo Beach,” written in 1971 and recorded in 1975, Patti Smith singing, sad and beautiful. People are dancing and I’m outside, still trying to figure out what I’m doing.
I look across the street and stare down Cortland Alley. I keep thinking about that phone call—the call that changed everything. The people I met on White Street—I loved almost all of them. Sometimes because of who they were, other times simply because they were there. Most remained strangers while some became friends; they made New York City, and the Mudd Club in particular, special places during an extraordinary time.
Steve called and I fell right into the job. I watched a small page of history unfold from the steps of 77 White. Despite my own insanity, weirdness and insecurity, I did my part and shook everyone’s hand. If they wanted a drink, I had one too. Nearly everyone who made a mark, highbrow or low, on the dance floor or the street, stepped up to the chain. Most times, I opened it.
Drink ticket, 1980.
Neil finally stopped singing; Patti settled down and DJ David had Nancy Sinatra and her boots walking all over the dance floor. Three hours later on the second floor, I’m hanging with SoHo News editor Peter Occhiogrosso. We’re both thirsty and need a round of Heinekens. The bartender, also named Richard, puts two bottles in front of me and asks for two drink tickets. Things quickly go downhill from there.
I’d never used a ticket for my own drinks, and wasn’t going to start at 4 A.M. upstairs at the Mudd Club. I remember Peter yelling, “Richard, don’t!” as I heaved a full Rubbermaid “Roughneck” trash can across the bar. The bartender tried to catch it and wound up in the icewater melt of the bathtub beer bottle cooler. It’s hard to imagine things getting worse until I started yelling “Get the fuck out!” The bartender left and never came back; I drank one of the two Heinekens that started it all. The second floor kept going till 5 A.M.
It was an ugly scene but it was all on me. The bartender was an idiot, but I topped it. Trying to figure out if it was too much cocaine, not enough heroin, or just an overload of ego, beer and bad attitude didn’t matter; clearly, I was having problems.
When I later asked Peter about that night he recalled “some sort of incident.” I remember not wanting to look in the mirror for days.
Blow
Luckily, the week happened fast. I tried to stay at the door, and if I ran around inside, I tried not to throw things at anyone. By the weekend, I worked up enough courage to look in the mirror again, and almost smile. Monday night, back outside, I was doing my job. I never got a chance to tell that bartender I was sorry—that he was an idiot.
September seemed a long month and slow to close. New faces were coming around and a young Hip-Hop promoter and manager, Russell Simmons, was inside talking to Steve. The club was approaching its second anniversary and entering the next phase of post-Punk cross-cultural pollination. White Street, still ahead of the curve.
Graffiti writers, break-dancers and beatboxes, rapping MCs and scratchmaster DJs were in the process of spa
wning a Rap and Hip-Hop revolution. Fab Five Freddy Brathwaite and Afrika Bambaataa, Basquiat, Haring and Futura 2000 were all there at the beginning. Debbie Harry and Chris Stein were already recording “Rapture.” Kurtis Blow, a Rap avatar, Simmons collaborator and future founder of the Hip-Hop Church had a new single called “The Breaks” and was ready to make his move in a white club on White Street.
With the “Christmas Rappin’” single firmly behind him as well as a newly released album, Kurtis Blow got onstage at Mudd and the next wave came rolling in. I stood there listening to a twenty-year-old kid from the Bronx, the beat both familiar and brand new. I clapped my hands and listened while he was rappin’ about the breaks.
The Brides
Sometimes I struggled to keep up with Dr. Mudd’s inspired lineup of midweek entertainment. Working at 77 White, I had no choice, and living in New York, there was no slowing down.
Months earlier, when the Brides of Funkenstein, a George Clinton Parliament-Funkadelic spinoff, became part of that lineup, I stopped struggling and just went with it. Like the Mudd Club, P-Funk’s trickle-down effect showed us where we came from, what was happening, and what was next. Following in the footsteps of Soul Night, the Brides added a kick to the White Street mayhem, opening a new door of musical enlightenment. Beauty and Funk became part of anything can happen at Mudd. Rap and Hip-Hop, Bambaataa, Brathwaite and even Blondie took note of Clinton’s lead.
Dawn Silva and Lynn Mabry were the original Brides. Lynn was Sly Stone’s cousin, and both she and Dawn spent time singing with Sly & the Family Stone. By the mid-seventies they were working with George Clinton. The Brides of Funkenstein officially arrived January 1978 but by 1979, they’d already left the Clinton collective. They landed on White Street in 1980.
